Capital Letters are Never Good
by DisenchantedDestroya
Summary: Sam has no idea why he likes Gabriel. He has even less of an idea as to why he asked Gabriel to go to this music festival with him. Hell, Sam has even less of an idea of what's going on in his head. SABRIEL high school age one-shot. May be triggering.


**Capital Letters are Never Good**

Sam has no idea what possessed him to ask Gabriel. He really doesn't. The guy is constantly hyper and way too happy for it to be natural. But then, maybe that's exactly why Sam Winchester asked Gabriel; maybe he was hoping that the older boy's feelings would rub off onto him. Or maybe he just asked Gabriel because his best friend, Castiel, was busy and Dean refused to be seen dead at a small-time 'emo' music festival teaming with 'fourteen-year-old douche bags'. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it's because he's got feelings for the older boy and he wants to test the water.

Either way, Gabriel is the one he asked. And now Sam is shitting himself.

He's had this thing lately. No. It's more like a Thing with a capital 'T'. A Thing that keeps him up at night and makes him not want to wake up in the mornings. A Thing that makes him want to cry for no specific reason and then makes him smile at things that would normally make other people want to cry. A Thing that's been telling him to _do it Sammy do it, do it for Dean._

If someone were to put a name to this Thing then that name might very well be Depression with a capital 'D'. But Sam would deny that if someone put it to him. Depression is what happens to other people, not to him; it's something that happens to adult's who have shit lives, not a sixteen-year-old who has an awesome big brother and has never known the true meaning of hunger.

Either way, the Thing evolved and here it is now, manifesting itself in the only way that Sam knows how to express it. It's showing itself in three angry red lines on his wrist, obscured from view by his fluorescent yellow festival wristband.

He looks at himself in the venue's (a university with an overly-active student union) bathroom mirror and laughs. Here he is, at a goddamn music festival with someone he _really_ likes and the one thing he could think of to do was to cut lines into his skin with his pocket knife. Or maybe that's the reason why; maybe he can't stand to be happy, can't stand to be so close to winning Gabriel that he can almost taste it.

What would Dean say? What would _Gabriel_ say?

Sam's eyes are transfixed on his reflection in the grotty mirror, the image making his mind seethe with hatred. He's a _freak_. His mother's gone. His dad doesn't give a shit. The only way he can make the Thing feel alright is by letting it leak out of his wrists in the form of blood every once in a while. But it always comes back. And each time it comes back it needs more and bigger vents to escape from.

He can hear an out of tune bass guitar shake the ground of the room next to the bathroom and the sound of some girl screeching something about _oh my god it's __**him**_ and reality rushes back at him with a brutal force. Gabriel is up there, waiting for Sam so they can go and catch the main stage's headlining act. It's a little known band but they both love it, have bonded over it and Sam'll be damned if he's about to make Gabriel miss it.

Carefully, he readjusts the festival wristband, wincing as it irritates the cuts but sighing at the mild and twisted relief it brings him. He swallows and convinces himself that everything is fine, that he hasn't just relapsed into cutting after _twelve whole days clean_. Because it is just like that; it's just like a drug addiction.

Before any more thought can be wasted on the subject Sam pushes past the throng of people waiting to take a piss and sprints in the direction of the university cafe, to the corner booth where he left Gabriel. Most of the gig-goers have ever left by now or are getting ready to watch the headliners on each of the stages, so the cafe is pretty much deserted save for some old guy mopping the floors on the opposite side of the room to where Gabriel is perched.

When the older boy sees Sam he smiles. When Sam gets closer, that smile falters and falls.

"Hey." Sam mumbles, all of a sudden feeling very sheepish and embarrassed. "Sorry I took so long. Long queue."

"What's wrong?" Gabriel demands fiercely, looking set to punch himself in the face for letting something bad happen to Sammy. He can just tell that it has.

"N-nothing."

Sam shrugs nonchalantly, the action turning his wrists and making the wristband slip ever so slightly. Or maybe he did it on purpose, maybe he wanted Gabriel to care about it and take care of him.

For a moment Sam thinks that he's dodged a bullet and Gabriel either hasn't noticed or has and isn't bothered about it. But Gabriel has noticed and is so hit between the eyes by it that he doesn't know what to do. Yeah, of course he's heard the rumours about the weird Winchester kid but he's never quite believed them. Someone as smiley as Sammy couldn't possibly be hurting enough inside to hurt himself on the outside, _right_?

Well, _wrong_, apparently.

Gabriel reaches out and grabs the offending wrist with a strong hand, gripping it so tightly that it's borderline painful for Sam.

"What the _fuck_ is this, Sam?" Gabriel yells, a rush of unfathomable emotion sweeping over him and drowning out his senses. "Stupid boy. Stupid fucking _child_!"

"G-gabriel... I-I-"

He's cut off by a harsh slap to the injured wrist, one that makes him flinch. One that makes him want to burst into tears but he can't because he can't remember the last time he let into the urge to cry.

Gabriel looks at the angry lines, the red-hot skin surround them, the nearly-invisible-but-not-quite white lines (_oh god, scars_) striping the soft, delicate skin. Gabriel feels sick, he really does, because, believe it or not, he really cares about this 'stupid fucking child'. He doesn't regret the slap though. Not at all. He's vengeful by nature and thoroughly feels that the strike was well deserved.

"You did that just now, didn't you?" Sam nods morosely at the sharp, pain-tinged question. "Why, Sammy? What the hell happened, huh? How could you do something like that? I mean, I was right fucking _here_, Sam. I could've helped you."

"I-I'm sorry." Sam chokes out, his barriers breaking down. He thinks that Gabriel is about the only person in the world right now who could make him feel guilty for this. "Gabriel, we're still friends, right?"

Strong arms are wrapped around Sam and pull him down to be practically in Gabriel's lap. All of a sudden, all of the anger and hurt and Thing are gone. Because Gabriel is holding him, cuddling him close and showing no sign of ever wanting to let Sam go, scars and all.

Gabriel feels Sam goes lax in his arms and smiles softly, bitterly, wondering if he'd done this earlier then maybe Sam wouldn't have, _god_, wouldn't have cut himself. He's had friends before who used to do this, hell, he even came way too goddamn close to losing a friend to it a year or so back and he'll be damned straight to hell if he's about to risk losing Sammy to something like this. Something that _can_ be fixed.

"You're not going to do it again." The older boy declares. "Are you?"

"Don't ask me to make that promise, Gabe. You know I can't keep it."

Gabriel tilts Sam's chin up with soft, gentle fingers and forces their eyes to lock. He sees a lost little boy there, a scared kid looking for someone's hand to hold to pull him out of the dark. Gabriel wants to be that hand. At least for tonight, anyway.

He leans forward and presses his lips to Sam's dry, gnawed ones and lets them linger there for a moment. Sam tenses against him and then relaxes again. They kiss, long and desperate, Gabriel's hand in Sam's hair. It feels so natural, so much like it's the right thing to do that Gabriel doesn't think about the repercussions; he doesn't think about the fact that he's got an almost-girlfriend at high school and that this probably won't go any further than right now.

All either of them can think about is how _good_ it feels, how _right_ it feels, how _hopeful_ it feels.

"Hurt yourself and I won't ever kiss you again, capiche?"

It's meant in jest but Sam gets it. They both know Sam will do it again. Just like they both know that They with a capital 'T' can only exist here, tonight, with nobody around but strangers They'll probably never see again.

But Sam also knows that whenever he feels like hurting himself or does hurt himself, then this will be the memory that comes with it. The memory of someone caring and not wanting him to do it.

The memory of them being They and Us and We.

The memory of being _loved_.

**000000**

**A/N: **Thank you very much for reading this, I hope you liked it and _**please let me know what you think!**_


End file.
